


What a Wonderful World

by wyntera



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Tearjerker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-04-23 16:51:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19155103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntera/pseuds/wyntera
Summary: Jesse McCree came to terms with the circumstances of his childhood a long, long time ago. Most of the time, he doesn't give it a second thought. After all, there's plenty of people with sob stories, and life's too short to worry about what could have been.Sometimes the smallest mistakes make the biggest impacts.





	1. Chapter 1

Missions are rarely a complete success, even with agents of Overwatch’s experience and skill. Such is the nature of their work. By the time they are called in to action things have already gone sideways. There are injuries, sometimes casualties, hostiles at the advantage and the odds stacked against them. The abolishment of the Petras Act has made things easier in some ways since Overwatch no longer has to fear prosecution, but the freedom that came with operating beyond the law is gone. Nothing is ever black and white, never has been and never will be. And now they are busier than ever, the nations of the world clamoring for their assistance with the rising threat of Talon and a dozen other organizations hell-bent on causing chaos and destruction.

So, missions are rarely a complete success, but when they are its cause for celebration.

“You are crazy if you think I am drinking that again,” Genji says. He waits for the Orca’s doors to hiss open before adding, “I have already died once, and last time I drank that I almost died twice. Are you going for a third?”

Hanzo flushes at the reference but Jesse bulldozes right over whatever feelings the jab dredges up, more concerned about defending his drink, or his ego. “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with my moonshine!”

“It tastes like peach and paint thinner!” Genji counters.

“What’s your point?”

Genji points at Hanzo and the others agents behind him. “Heed my warning. Do not listen to the cowboy. Do not drink anything he hands you in a mason jar.”

Zarya lets out a delighted belly laugh, hoisting her gear. “Sounds like a challenge!”

“It must have been bad if your iron gut couldn’t handle it,” Lucio teases as he skates around Genji and down the ramp. “Don’t worry, I’ve got some perfectly normal drinks we can throw together. Meet in thirty?”

The group disperses with promises to meet within the hour and get the party started, Jesse and Hanzo bringing up the rear as they disembark. Jesse even manages to snag Hanzo’s gear bag to carry for him, which earns him a secret little smile from the archer. “Always the gentleman.”

“Well, I figure I never got to carry my cute boyfriend’s books for him in school,” Jesse reasons. “Tactical gear and extra arrows are more interestin’ than algebra and history anyday.”

Hanzo laughs, shaking his head and letting their shoulders bump together. “I have a hard time imagining you doing anything of the sort. Maybe hiding behind the school smoking stolen cigarettes?”

“That does sound more my style.”

He starts to say more, but Athena’s smooth, clipped tones cut through the air to catch their attention.  _ Welcome back to Gibraltar. Agent McCree, your presence is requested by Commander Winston immediately. _

Jesse’s eyebrows raise as he glances at a frowning Hanzo, both confused. “Uh oh. Called to the principal’s office.”

“That seems odd,” Hanzo says. “Do you want me to come with you?”

_ Commander Winston needs to speak with Agent McCree on a personal matter, Agent Shimada. There is no need for concern. Unless Agent McCree has any delinquent activities he would like to admit to? I am certain the Commander could come up with an acceptable detention punishment. _

“Won’t be necessary, Athena. I’ve been a good boy. More or less.” He sighs as Hanzo takes both his and Jesse’s gear from his arms, rendering his gentlemanly behavior moot. “And here I was lookin’ forward to trying to fit us both in that shower.”

“I will try not to use up all the hot water,” Hanzo replies, tilting his head up for a kiss. They linger for just a moment, the heat in Hanzo’s eyes a heady promise to make it up to Jesse later, before he steps back. “Do not keep the Commander waiting.”

Jesse snorts as they part ways. He is not sure he will ever get used to referring to the earnest, idealistic Winston as  _ Commander. _ To be honest, he will always associate the position with Jack Morrison and the perpetual stick that must have been shoved up his ass to make his posture permanently stand at attention. At least Jack has mellowed-out some now that the weight of the organization is no longer on his shoulders. Hell, maybe they can get Jack drunk tonight and see him do that god-awful dancing of his again. Seeing his lack of rhythm last time was enough to make Jesse’s month.

The Commander’s office is nothing more than an extra room off to the side of Winston’s lab, much less formal than the room upstairs build specifically for the purpose. Less formality to go with a less military-minded Overwatch, even if they still use the terms of the old hierarchy. The lab itself is suspiciously quiet, not a soul in sight, and when Jesse makes his way through toward the office he hears muted voices beyond. A prickle of unease dances across his skin, but he presses forward, knocking at the door frame when he’s in range.

Inside is Winston seated behind his oversized desk, as expected, but also Jack leaning against the side wall and Angela seated in one of the guest chairs. The other is obviously empty, as if they were expecting him. All three look up with the same guarded, serious look, and now he knows something is up. “You wanted to see me?”

Winston rallies first, but Jesse makes note that both Jack and Angela’s eyes cut away quickly, sharing a look he cannot decipher. “Yes, come in and have a seat. You’re back early! I take it the mission went well?”

“Yeah, went better than expected. Local authorities should have enough evidence to prosecute some’ve Talon’s financial backers and rescued all the hostages to boot.” Jesse comes in the room but stands just by the door, watching their reactions. Even as he relays the pertinent mission information, he can tell none of them are really taking it in. Something is off. “Didn’t think Angie was usually all that interested in mission debriefs,” he leads. “And I reckon y’all already know all this from listening to the comms earlier.”

“Sit down, Jesse,” Jack says. It’s Jesse’s first instinct to buck the order, but Jack’s tone, the use of his given name, brings him up short. The older man looks at him imploringly. “You’re going to want to sit for this.”

The uneasy feeling from before now rages in warning, but he sits. “What’s this all about?” he asks the room at large.

Winston clears his throat and abandons the pretense. “I understand that you lost your family during the first Omnic Crisis.”

It’s worded like a statement, but Jesse can hear the unspoken questions. Not unexpected, even if the topic is. Jesse doesn’t make a secret about that part of his life but he also doesn’t bring it up unless directly asked. They aren’t memories he is keen on rehashing. “Yeah,” Jesse confirms. “Lot of people did.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“Of course I do. The government’s got a lot of bases out there, testing facilities in the desert, you know. They were ready to defend themselves but not so much the civilians. Santa Fe, everything around it, got wiped out pretty quick.”

“But you were not there?” Winston asks.

Jesse shakes his head. “We’d all done the drills. The plan had been for all us kids to go with a few of the adults and run while the others stayed. The crops and the livestock were too important to just abandon. We were at school when we heard the bombing sirens goin’ off. The teacher loaded us in a bus and we took off into the desert. Didn’t know just what happened ‘till we were halfway to Colorado. Most of us were put in foster care not long after.” He shrugs. “I was only five; I don’t remember too much about it.” 

This is an outright lie, but they don’t need to know that. They don’t need to hear about the terror of that day and the subsequent ones, not knowing what had happened, not knowing if they would live or die. Nor do they need his sob story of a childhood. They already know the parts that matter, anyway. He has long wrestled those memories into something manageable. As far as he is concerned, everything before he stepped onto the Rock of Gibraltar is a bad dream best laid to rest.

Still, he doesn’t understand why they’re taking this stroll down nightmare lane.

“And you do not know of any living relatives?” Angela asks.

“Why? What happened?” A little fizzle of hope sparks but Jesse immediately tamps it out; he has given up the dream of that chance. He notices a plain manilla folder under Winston’s giant palm, placed a little too deliberately to not be important. Maybe they finally found and identified the remains. The damage had been so severe that most families chose not to return to Santa Fe. He sure didn’t. Some parts of the city are still uninhabitable. Clean up and rebuilding has taken decades. “What is it?”

“Give it to him, Winston,” Jack says.

The folder is slid across the metal desktop to sit large and imposing against the surface. Jesse hesitates, feeling the weight of three sets of eyes on him, before reaching out to flip the cover open.

At first he does not register what he is seeing, but when he does, his heart seizes in his chest along with his breath. Numb fingers pick up the first page with the attached photograph. Eyes he has not seen in thirty-four years look back at him in brilliant full-color glory. Their faces are etched with the grooves of age, their hair lighter and thinner than he remembers, but Jesse would recognize them anywhere. His parents.

_ His parents. _

There is information on the page beneath, and more beyond that. Jesse can’t see it. He can’t hear anything. The world has gone white-noise and fuzzy other than the beat of his own heart. All he can see are the smiling faces of his mother and father, posing in what looks to be a generic set and taken by a professional photographer. The kind families hang up in their living room, everyone arranged just so. They’re smiling, his father’s hand on his mother’s shoulder, brilliantly vibrant and breathing and alive.

Jesse’s mouth works but no words come out, not until he takes a harsh breath. “What is this?” he asks, unable to tear his eyes away. “What does this mean? Is this—is this s-some sort of joke?”

Winston shakes his head as Jack answers. “No joke, Jesse.”

“They’re dead,” he insists, fingers tightening on the photograph until the edges bend and crease. “They—”

“In the aftermath, people weren’t great with keeping track of what happened to who,” Jack says. “The infrastructure in New Mexico was in shambles, and everyone was struggling to keep up. Somewhere along the way something went wrong. Your parents were marked down as killed in the blast, but so were you and all the other kids you were with. A clerical error.”

“The facility in charge of deaths from the war only just discovered the mistake recently,” Angela adds, gentle as Jesse has ever heard her. “They contacted us after your pardon, when Overwatch went public. We wanted to be sure this wasn’t a threat, so I acquired a blood sample from their local doctor for comparison with yours. Highly illegal, but given the circumstances…” He finally lifts his eyes away from the photograph, Angela’s face swimming into view through a sea of tears he wasn’t aware had gathered. “I am certain. They’re your parents, Jesse. They’re alive.”

A hard sob escapes Jesse’s chest before he crumples inward, clutching at the picture, and Angela draws him into a comforting embrace. He needs the anchor because suddenly he is unmoored, crying harder than he can ever remember. His emotions are too scattered to latch onto anything concrete. Shock, disbelief, joy, grief, anger, doubt, guilt, and a dozen more feelings all vying for dominance, a potent cocktail noxious enough to make him sick. He has the wild thought that he will be mad at himself for damaging the photograph. Fast on the tail of that is the realization that there could be more pictures, countless pictures, because his parents are alive, and Jesse squeezes his eyes shut into Angela’s shoulder as he weeps against her.

Angela whispers words of comfort that he only distantly registers. The hand that squeezes his shoulder in support is Jack’s, the man silent and respectful. They ride the storm until Jesse comes back to himself, his breathing hitched but manageable. “They’re—” He stalls on the next word. Unable to say it out loud yet. “I don’t know wh-what to do,” he admits, allowing Angela to sit him back and accepting the wad of tissues she quickly presses into his prosthetic. He’s sure his face is a right mess but he cannot find it in himself to care. “What happens now?”

“That’s up to you,” Angela replies. She puts a hand on the open file before them on the table. “We gathered what we could, and their contact information is here, if you want it.”

“If I want it?”

She smiles something a little sad. “Some people, when they find relatives, choose to make contact. Some people don’t. There is no pressure on you either way, and it’s a decision you don’t have to make today, or tomorrow, or anytime soon. But you had a right to know.”

Jesse looks back down at the folder. “They don’t know?”

“We thought it best to talk to you first,” Jack interjects. “Given what we do and your history, if you want to leave the past in the past, we can change the records back. They never have to know, if that’s what you decide.”

Angela nods along with Jack. “But you should process this. We know this is a lot to accept. And I’ll be here to help you through whatever you might be feeling.”

Jesse sniffles, scrubbing at his eyes and laughing out the barest huff of air. “Finally getting to use those therapy skills?”

His attempt at humor falls flat, his heart not in it, yet Angela plays along. “We can even get you a fainting couch, if you’d like.”

Across the desk, Winston gestures to the file. “That is for you. We didn’t want to pry too deeply into their lives, but it can give you some insight into who they are now. I’m taking you off the mission rotation for the time being.” He silences Jesse’s protests before they can even begin with a raised hand. “You need to take the time for this, Jesse. I’m not a therapist, but even I know that. I’ll give you light duty around the Watchpoint if you need a distraction, but no combat. For now.”

In the end Jesse agrees, mostly because he has little choice in the matter and they are right. There is no way his mind could stay focused in a battle right now. It can hardly stay focused in this office. He leaves with a promise to meet with Angela the next day and to seek out someone if he needs support. Maybe once upon a time he would argue that last point. Now, he accepts it easily. He will probably take someone up on the offer.

Walking from the lab and back into the halls feels a bit like walking through a hazy dream. His feet carry him but he hardly feels the steps. He ends up back at his and Hanzo’s shared rooms, his lover nowhere to be seen. A wet towel lays next to the laundry basket, and the bedside lamp is flicked on in welcome. Hanzo must have already left for the rec room. Part of Jesse wishes Hanzo was here now if for nothing more than his strong arms; for a man that started off so stoic and prickly, he gives some of the best hugs. Another part of Jesse is thankful for the silence. He strips out of his combat gear, leaving it where it falls. He is in need of a shower but skips it for now, pulling on fresh underwear and a baggy shirt before sitting on the bed with the file.

Once again, his eyes fixate on the top photograph. His parents. Joel McCree and Lucila Ochoa McCree. Joe and Lucy. The sight of them aches in such a good way. He has no pictures of them. Not a single thing survives from his family home, or if it did it never made its way back to him. All he had when they evacuated were the clothes on his back and a battered lunchbox. He never thought he would see their faces again.

His memories have probably painted them rose-colored, but in his mind’s eye his parents have always remained young and perfect. Now, they must be in their late fifties, early sixties. He never once imagined what they would look like at this age. His father’s hand looks bonier than he remembers, weathered by labor with dark spots on the back from the sun. He didn’t have spectacles before, but his eyes look the same. Lighter brown and full of humor. His mother is still as beautiful as ever, even though her jet black hair is now faded with gray and her warm, dark skin has grown paper-thin in some places. She’s wearing turquoise jewelry, her favorite, just like the bracelet he remembers falling down against his fingers when she would hold his hand.

They are familiar and foreign all at the same time, and the thought has tears leaving tracks down his cheeks once again. With a huff, Jesse leans over to fetch one of his handkerchiefs from the bedside table. He has a feeling he’s going to need it to get through this file.

An hour later, the sound of the security code being entered at the door startles Jesse out of his reverie. He scrambles to wipe his face as the door opens. The hall light silhouettes Hanzo in stark contrast making Jesse wince. “There you are! We were wondering if you got lost—Jesse?” The door clicks shut and Hanzo approaches, panic and concern written all over his face. “What happened? Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Jesse replies. His voice sounds rough and clogged to his own ears, and judging by Hanzo’s growing frown his answer does little to placate.

“You obviously are not.” Hanzo sits next to Jesse’s thigh on the bed and reaches out to cup Jesse’s face in his calloused hands. Thumbs sweep through the tear tracks on his red cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

Jesse shakes his head. “Nothin’s wrong,” he says, then has to clear his throat when it comes out more like a croak than words. “Sorry, um. No, not wrong.”

“Is this about your meeting with Winston?” At Jesse’s nod, Hanzo’s eyes track back and forth between his. “You are not being kicked out, are you?”

A small snort escapes. “No. It’s nothin’ like that. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Hanzo’s shoulders relax by only the smallest of degrees, and it finally occurs to Jesse how scary it must be for Hanzo to walk in and find his boyfriend in such a state with no indication of why. “Oh, shit, nah, it’s not you either, sweetpea. God, sorry, I didn’t even think—you and me are solid, I didn’t mean to—”

He’s silenced with a thumb over his lips, then Hanzo bringing him in for a soft, chaste kiss. “You are avoiding. Tell me what has happened.”

Jesse nods and takes in an unsteady breath. Still, when he tries to say it, the words won’t come. It still doesn’t seem possible. It still seems like a dream, and if he puts it into words he’ll wake up. This is one dream he doesn’t want to wake up from.

So instead he hands over the open folder. Hanzo frowns again, eyes quickly flitting over the information before they widen. “These are all McCree’s.”

Jesse nods.

“You told me you had no family left.”

“I know.”

Hanzo’s mouth falls open with surprise and wonder, eyes lighting up. “Are these your…?”

Jesse nods again, eyes welling up. “It’s what Winston wanted to show me.” He scoots closer so they sit side-by-side and points out different names. “That there’s my mom, Lucila, and my dad, Joel. And they had two more—two more sons, Nathaniel and Elijah. And look, look here, Nathaniel’s got kids of his own. They’d be my—” His voice stutters out over a hiccup that racks his frame. “My nephews and n-nieces, I-I got—I got brothers—”

“Oh, Jesse,” Hanzo murmurs, drawing him in. He lets the larger man latch on and presses soft kisses to his hairline. “Jesse, that is wonderful.”

“They’re alive,” Jesse whispers into Hanzo’s neck, finally allowing himself to say it. The gravity of the words makes him feel like he is going to shake apart. “They’re alive, they made it, they’ve been out there all this time.”

“How did this happen? How did no one know?”

Jesse barks a laugh and squeezes his eyes shut. “God damn bureaucracy. A ‘clerical error.’ Can you believe it?”

Hanzo hums, hugging Jesse close and nuzzling his temple. “I am happy for you.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees, turning to look at another picture near the back. This one has a whole swarm of people in it at what looks to be a kid’s pool party. Probably posted on social media, if he were to guess. There’s a man in amongst all the kids trying to wrestle one into submission. He looks the spitting image of Jesse himself some ten years ago. A couple of older folks are gathered along a fence; Jesse spots his dad among them. “Look at ‘em all.”

“Do they know?” At the shake of Jesse’s head, Hanzo reaches out to stroke up and down his back, soothing. “They will be so surprised. I am sure they will be thrilled to know you are alive.” He watches as Jesse ducks his eyes and sits back, still looking down at the playing family, not nearly as pleased with the possibility as Hanzo expected. “What?”

The smile he gives Hanzo is wistful. “They look happy.”

Hanzo narrows his eyes. It takes him a few moments to put the pieces together. “I know you are not thinking what I think you are thinking, are you?”

“...What?” Jesse asks.

“Jesse McCree. You know they would want to meet you.”

“Would they?” He’s on his feet before he knows it, pacing a circuit in the tiny space between their bed and the door. “It’s been thirty-four years, Hanzo. Thirty-four! That’s a lifetime for people like us! They’ve grieved and moved on. Hell, I’d made my peace with all this long ago. Haven’t given any of this more’n a passing thought in years. And then suddenly they’re there and—and I’ve been—I’ve done so many bad things. You really think they want someone like that walking back into their lives? Someone with a sixty million dollar bounty—”

“Which you were pardoned of,” Hanzo interjects, but Jesse scoffs at him.

“You know damn well I earned at least some of that. These are normal people livin’ normal lives, and if there’s one thing I ain’t, it’s normal. I got blood on my hands and nothin’ good to show for the time I’ve been gone. They’d be better off it I just stayed dead.”

“Nothing good to show?” A grasp like an adder’s strike grabs Jesse by the wrist and Hanzo hauls himself up while dragging Jesse in. “I will not listen to another word of such nonsense,” Hanzo hisses. He pushes right into Jesse’s space so he cannot avoid Hanzo’s piercing eyes. “You are afraid.”

Jesse tries to tug his arm free. “I ain’t afraid—”

“You are.” His tone brooks no argument. In contrast to the tight grip, his other hand comes up to cradle Jesse’s neck. “Of course you are. You would be crazy not to be. Everything you understood to be true is not. They are no longer how you remembered, not the same people you imagined them to be for so long. You are afraid of what that means for you. You are afraid you will not be good enough.”

“I’m not,” Jesse whispers, but Hanzo shakes his head.

“You are. Yes, you have blood on your hands, but you have also saved countless lives, my own included. You have done so many good things. Who you are is good enough.”

“What if it’s not? What if—they might not even want to meet me.”

Hanzo presses his mouth into a thin line before he answers. “Then they would be throwing away a gift. I understand how important this is. Maybe better than most. Not everyone has the opportunity to get their family back from the grave.” He stalls a moment there, tapping his fingers along the back of Jesse’s neck, counting. “Although it does seem Overwatch has a higher rate than usual.”

The joke gets Jesse to offer a watery smile, so Hanzo presses. “No matter what happens, you are no worse off than before. You have your family here. That is not going to change today or any other day. We love you exactly as you are.” He pulls Jesse down and presses their foreheads together. “I love you as you are.”

“I love you too,” Jesse replies, barely a rumble. He kisses Hanzo, and again, relishing in the familiar softness and warmth of his embrace. “I’m so lucky to have you.”

“Yes you are,” Hanzo replies, laughing when Jesse pinches his side for that one. “I am lucky, too,” he adds, dragging his hands down Jesse’s torso before taking him by both hands. “There will be time to figure things out. Come back to bed for now and tell me more about your family.”

The rest of the evening is spent pouring over the contents of the folder. There are tears, and laughter, and Hanzo’s touch to ground Jesse in the present. He falls asleep in the gray hours before dawn when his exhaustion finally catches up with him.

Jesse makes no decisions that night, his emotions too raw for rational thinking. Over the next few weeks he spends a lot of time sorting himself out with the help of almost everyone on base. Angela really does get to flex her therapy muscles, for once not limited to PTSD and other combat-related issues. She also helps him through the logistics of reconnecting with lost family, and the possibility that yes, even if they do not want to have a relationship with him, it will not be because of who he is. Though, if that does happen to be the case, he knows he’ll be purchasing her that fainting couch personally because he will need more than a few therapy sessions to get over the rejection.

He listens to Ana and Fareeha, both together and separately. Over a cup of tea, Ana tells him about the yearning a parent goes through when they are unable to be with their child, the guilt and the regret for every missed opportunity. She knows the situations are not the same—she still knew Fareeha was out there, just unreachable—but there are still days when she questions every past decision that led them to where they were those horribly lonely years. Over a bottle of beer, Fareeha talks about the anger she felt when she found out her mother lied, but also the profound relief that she lived. That the relief eventually won out, because it just seemed petty to hold onto that anger when she could have her mother back. Over hot cocoa, they tell him that their time apart made them appreciate what they can now have together. They also hug him, one from each side, and call him brother and son in their native tongue.

He listens to Genji talk about a lot of things he already knew, but some things he didn’t. Genji was the one he was closest to in Blackwatch, despite the many, many,  _ many  _ tries it took to break through the ninja’s shell of hatred and self-loathing back then. He knows every facet of Genji and Hanzo’s story by now. Instead of the past, Genji talks about the here and now. He talks about learning how to communicate with Hanzo again. He recalls their first forays out together, not as ninjas or as agents but as brothers, and navigating being people around each other when there was no one else around to act as a buffer. He brings up how, eventually, they were able to let go of the lost years and embrace the years to come. And in the end, he embraces Jesse hard and reminds him that he has had a brother long before these other two came along, and not to forget it. 

He listens to Mei talk about the scientists at Ecopoint, her little family that she left behind in the freeze, and how she would give anything to talk to them just one more time. He listens to Torbjorn tell embarrassing stories about his many children, some of which make Brigitte hide her face and Reinhardt laugh loud at her embarrassment. He listens to Hana, Lena, Zarya and Lucio recall the friends they have lost along the way while they battle it out playing video games, alternating between mocking and affectionate nicknames as they squabble like siblings. He listens to Satya describe a little girl on the streets of Rio de Janeiro, and Zenyatta describe his his friend and mentor. He listens to Winston remember his father figure with open adoration, and he listens to all the things Jack doesn’t say about those that were close to him.

And through it all, Hanzo offers his own strength and support. In the quiet of night he lets Jesse talk through his emotions one by one, offering a reply when needed but more often than not just there to listen. And, sometimes, he distracts Jesse enough to forget it all for a few hours. Whatever he needs, Hanzo happily gives. Jesse thinks that if he did not love the man before, he surely does now. 

In the end, they are what push Jesse to follow through. He wants to have the chance to meet his family by birth and have that connection, but more than that he wants to share with them the family he cobbled together with laughter and heartache and more than a little blood, sweat, and tears. Maybe he is not proud of some of the things he’s done, but he is proud of his family. He is proud of what Overwatch has become. And maybe Hanzo is right. Maybe he is enough.

Jesse asks Angela for advice and scours online forums for the right way to go about this. They’re mostly targeted towards adopted kids reconnecting with birth parents, but a lot of the same ideas apply here. Everyone seems to be in agreement that just showing up on their doorstep is the worst way to go about things, which is a load off his mind because he doesn’t think he’d be able to pull something like that off, even if he likes to make a flashy entrance. A phone call out of the blue also sounds like a bad idea. It could be his leftover paranoia from being a wanted man, but he knows he wouldn’t trust some random voice on the phone that claimed to be a long-lost relative.

The letter, he writes by hand, in ink. That detail seemed important. Ana once told him that taking the time to handwrite a letter showed that you put care into the words. It takes him seventeen sheets of paper to get the words down without messing up, Hanzo informs him after the fact, and that it means he must care a great deal, indeed. Jesse sticks his tongue out at him from his place at the desk and throws balled-up attempt number nine at Hanzo on the bed. 

Attempt seventeen manages to be clean and spelled correctly. The words are only a little shaky, and he managed not smear the ink too much. It will have to do. He rereads the words countless times until they’re seared into his brain.

 

-

 

_ Dear Joel and Lucila, _

_ This is a hard letter for me to write, and I’m not sure how to start this, so here goes. _

_ My name is Jesse Joel McCree. I was born at New Chrystus St. Vincent Hospital in Santa Fe on May 15th, 2039. My parents are Joel McCree of Austin, Texas and Lucila Ochoa McCree of Zumpango del Río, Guerrero, Mexico. We lived in Santa Fe until September 24th, 2044, when we were separated in an attack by omnic forces. I was led to believe that they and any living relatives were killed in the airstrike. From what I now know, they were told the same about me. _

_ I know this comes as a shock. Believe me, I am still coming to terms with it. I thought it couldn’t be true but it is. I am your son. _

_ There is so much I want to say. I miss you. I’m sorry I never came looking for you. I would have been there in a heartbeat if I’d have known. Not a day went by where I didn’t think of you. I wish I could have been there. I hope I didn’t cause you too much pain. I’ve made a lot of mistakes and I’m not sure this is the path you would have chosen for me, but I’m trying to live a good life you would be proud of. _

_ I would love to hear from you someday, if you want to have contact. I want to know you and be able to share my story with you. Maybe we can see each other again. Nothing would make me happier. _

_ If this is all too much, or you need time, I understand. It took me a few weeks to work up the nerve, myself. I guess I just want you to know that it’s okay. I don’t blame you for what happened. Knowing that you are alive and out there means more to me than I can ever express, and it will be enough. _

_ Love always, your son, _

_ Jesse _

 

-

 

Once the ink has dried, Hanzo takes the letter and slides it into an envelope along with several documents from Mercy, including the proof of Jesse’s claim and every possible way to contact Jesse in Gibraltar. He also adds two pictures. The first is from an event in London just days after the revocation of the Petras Act. Jesse in his Overwatch dress uniform, posture straight and face serious, his wild hair tamed and presentable for once. Not his favorite picture by any means, but Hanzo insisted Jesse looked quite dashing in his dress blues and that it was the sort of picture a parent would be proud of. The second one is a candid shot taken in the rec room, the sleeves of his button-down rolled up to the elbows, wearing casual jeans and his hat in its rightful place atop his head. He looks relaxed with a wide smile that bends his whole face. This is how his Overwatch family sees him, and he hopes his family likes this picture as much if not more than the first.

Hanzo whisks the envelope away before Jesse can even think to tear it up, and soon enough it is on its way to the States, Athena tracking it every step of the way. Even in an age of hypertrains and hard light technology, the mail moves at a snail’s pace, so Jesse resolves to not think about the letter or possible negative outcomes. This works about as well as not thinking about water when it’s raining. The next few days are filled with Jesse working out his frustration at the practice range and, much to Hanzo’s delight, in the bedroom. He takes the opportunity to dote on Hanzo a little, too, because his poor boyfriend has had to put up with a lot of angst over the past few weeks and has been nothing but understanding. Plus, he hardly needs a reason to want to love on his sweetheart.

Still, it is four agonizing days before Jesse’s phone issues a gentle chime of an alert while he is folding laundry.  _ Your certified letter has been delivered. _

“Oh, God.”

Hanzo glances up from where he had been lounging in bed reading from his latest trashy novel—not that Jesse would call them that to Hanzo’s face, but Jesse knows a trashy novel when he sees one and Hanzo’s taste in fiction is questionable at best. At the stricken look on Jesse’s face, Hanzo slips one of the extra ace of spades’ Jesse keeps for gambling purposes into the book to save his place and sets it and his reading glasses aside. “Do not panic.”

“That’s the exact thing you say to someone panicking to make them panic more,” Jesse replies, staring down at the unassuming message like one might a chunk of uranium.

Rolling up onto his knees, Hanzo pries the phone from Jesse’s grasp and sets it down next to his book. “We have talked about this,” he says, taking both of Jesse’s hands and pressing kisses to the knuckles, metal and flesh alike. “It could take days, or even weeks, for them to respond. They may choose not to respond at all. It is their decision now.”

“I know.”

“You cannot put your life on hold waiting for an answer that might not come.”

“I know. I know, I know, you’re right,” Jesse nods, squeezing Hanzo’s hands back. “You’re right.” He swallows. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Then he bolts for the bathroom. 

“Jesse!”

Jesse isn’t sick, but he hyperventilates enough that it’s a close thing. A folded, damp washcloth is placed on his forehead and Hanzo ushers him back to the bed, fussing like a mother hen. Watching a movie is the last thing Jesse is interested in but Hanzo is insistent that a distraction will help, and didn’t Jesse want to show him that obscure spaghetti western, the one with the coffin and the gatling gun? So they queue up  _ Django  _ to watch while they finish folding laundry, Hanzo asking more questions than he usually would just to keep Jesse’s mind elsewhere. Eventually, they end up curled up in bed and using one of Jesse’s old serapes fresh from the dryer as an impromptu blanket. It’s so threadbare with age that it should have been made into rags ages ago, the old wrap still brings him comfort and he can’t bring himself to part with it.

“We should go into town tomorrow,” Hanzo murmurs before breaking into a yawn and burrowing deeper against Jesse’s side. The cowboy gives a questioning hum, eyes trained on the screen. “You have been cooped up on base for a while. We could go just the two of us.”

“You askin’ me for a date, Shimada?” Jesse asks, finally tearing his eyes away to look down in amusement at his boyfriend.

“Yes. One that involves ice cream.”

Jesse chuckles. “Oh, ice cream, huh? Is that all I am to you? Your sugar daddy?”

That earns him a loud snort and a thwap to the stomach that makes him grunt. “If anyone is the sugar daddy in this relationship, I am. Can you even be the sugar daddy if you are the younger one?”

“It’s not so much the age as the income, I think. And excuse you, Mister Moneybags, I have plenty of cash, thank you very much. Just because I don’t go flauntin’ it around wearin’ silk and buyin’ high-dollar hard light arrows all the time don’t mean I’m scrapin’ the barrel.”

“Your accent gets so much thicker when you are sleepy,” Hanzo teases, closing his eyes. “We can take turns. Tomorrow, you can be the sugar daddy.”

“Only ‘cause you’re so sweet,” Jesse replies, making Hanzo laugh again.

On the bedside table, Jesse’s phone rings with an incoming call, loud enough to rattle against the wood in the quiet of the room.

Jesse jerks alert like a deer caught in headlights. Everything is still in the silence after. The second ring jolts him upward to grab the phone. The number isn’t one he’s familiar with. He is dimly aware of Hanzo pausing the movie, then a gentle hand on his back. There is no time for the fear that takes a harsh grip on his heart, because the phone keeps ringing. His hands feel numb when he presses the answer button.

“Hello?”

For a few seconds there is nothing but silence. No, not silence. Someone’s breathing. Then, from the other end of the line, across an ocean and thousands of miles and half a lifetime, comes a voice Jesse could never, ever forget. “H-hello. I’m looking for my—may I speak to Jesse?”

His breath hitches. When he finally convinces his throat to work, he feels five years old again. “Mama?”

“Jesse?” The fragile hope in Lucila McCree’s voice cracks his chest wide open. “Jesse, baby, is it really you?”

“Yeah, Mama. It’s me,” he gasps out. He bows over, shaking, gripping the phone with both hands and squeezing his eyes shut as tears slip out. Through the crackling of spotty reception he hears her begin to sob and that sets him off. “Oh, God, Mama, I can’t believe—I didn’t think I’d ever—”

She makes a heart-wrenching noise of agreement. “Our baby, our sweet baby! It’s him, it’s him, I know it’s him—” She breaks off crying, and there’s another voice on the other end talking to her that Jesse can’t quite make out. Then, “Hold on, hold on sweetie, your Daddy wants to hear this—Joe, it’s not doing it—how do you get this damn thing on speaker—?”

A wet, hysterical laugh startles out of Jesse; yep, that’s his mother alright. 

He can tell when it switches over to speaker from the change in noise quality, ambient sound suddenly stronger. A rough voice not all that different from his own fills his ears. “Jesse, son? Can you hear us?”

“Yeah, Daddy, I can hear you. I can hear you just fine.”

His father lets out a breath that sounds like thirty years worth of tension releasing at once. “Oh...Jesse, it’s...we’ve been waitin’ to hear your voice for a long, long time.”

“Me too,” Jesse replies, wavering as he tries not to start crying as hard as his mother clearly is in the background. “I missed y’all s-so much.”

“We missed you, too. Every single day.” Joel’s voice shakes with effort. “We’re so sorry we didn’t come lookin’ for you—”

“You didn’t know! You didn’t know, it ain’t your fault—”

“We should have looked harder, made sure! We should’ve never left it to anyone else, we should’ve come and got you the moment them sirens went off—”

“No, no, you did the right thing. If you’d’ve come lookin’ for me, you might’ve—” Jesse bites down on his lip. “I never once blamed you, not ever, and I never will. Y’all got safe and that’s all I could’ve asked for.”

Lucila cries out again, and Jesse can hear his father comforting her. At that moment he wants to curse the distance between them, but this was still the best way of reaching out; if they had met in person first, he thinks he would have snatched his mother in a hug so fierce he might never let go. “I’m sorry that you had to go through this, Mama.”

She sniffs hard, swallowing down her hurt so she can answer with force. “Don’t you dare apologize, Jesse, baby, you have nothing to apologize for. You were just a child. It was up to the adults to do right by you, and they didn’t. We’re going to make it up to you, I promise you, one way or another.” A pause, then, “We love you so much, baby.”

Jesse breaks, his crying audible across the phone line. “I love you, too.”

Strong arms wrap around Jesse’s middle as he cries, all of them quiet in the wake of those words. Some piece inside himself that has laid long-broken slides back into place, the edges still sharp and imperfect, but finally beginning to mend. It is the most wonderful pain Jesse has ever felt: the promise of time to heal.

When he can breathe again, Jesse rubs a hand over his face and says, “Damn, sorry, I’m a wreck over here.”

His parents laugh, the first of what will be a million occurrences that will make his heart skip a beat. “I would say to watch your language, but I can tell you take after your mama on that one,” Joel says. “Well, tell us about yourself! We want to know everything!”

“I don’t even know where to start,” Jesse admits. He’s imagined this conversation a thousand times over the past weeks and now not a single thing comes to mind. He casts his eyes about until the land on Hanzo at his side. He had almost forgotten the other man was in the room, even while in his arms. “I’ve got a boyfriend?” As soon as he says the words he winces. Why did he lead off with  _ that?  _ “I mean—he’s here with me, now, uh. We’re partners, and-and I—he means a lot to me.” Hanzo shakes with silent laughter and squeezes Jesse around the middle, laying his head on Jesse’s shoulder. “Sorry, I’m a little nervous.”

“You got nothing to be nervous about,” Lucila promises. “We want to know! What’s his name? He better treat you good.”

“His name is Hanzo and he treats me very well,” Jesse says, grinning.

The words get easier. They stick to lighter subjects, where they’ve lived and what they do. Jesse tells them about Overwatch, that he’s a peacekeeper and a sharpshooter. His parents seem far more impressed with the position than he thinks it deserves, but he keeps his jaded opinions to himself; if his parents know about the shady gray years from Overwatch’s past, they keep that knowledge quiet, too.  He also doesn’t mention Deadlock, or Blackwatch, or the sixty-million dollar bounty he had until quite recently. Those are topics best covered another time.

Instead he tells them about the various places he’s lived—at least the places he lived in for more than a week—and about his friends here in Gibraltar. He hesitates to call them family. Chances are they can read between the lines, with the open affection he shows for them. Saying out loud, now, seems like a low blow, all things considered.

In return, they tell him the highlights of their own lives after they picked up the pieces from their old one. They moved to Colorado, one of the many families that couldn’t bear to go back to Santa Fe and rebuild. Joel found work doing odd jobs for a while before going back to school for a degree in journalism. He works for the local digital newspaper and runs the newsletter for their little neighborhood.

Lucila continued nursing for a few years but after losing Jesse her heart couldn’t bear to work with children in pain. Contrary to what everyone expected of her, she turned her focus into helping the omnics. “I didn’t blame them for what happened,” she says, Jesse listening rapt as she shares her story. “At least not the omnics that lived among us. They were just going about their lives, same as us. They lived on the same street, worked the same farms we did. And no one cared that they were hurting, too.” She became an omnic technician and eventually opened a clinic, the first in their county. Up until two years ago she was still seeing patients. Now, their son Nathaniel runs the clinic.

When they finally bring up Jesse’s brothers, it is obvious they worry over his reaction. “We don’t want you to think we were replacing you,” Lucila says. “We could never.”

“I don’t,” Jesse assures her. “I’m glad. They could be there when I couldn’t.”

“We haven’t told them, yet,” Joel adds. “They’re probably wonderin’ what’s goin’ on. We usually take care of the kids after school but I called Allie—that’s Nate’s wife, Alejandra—to let her know we were havin’ a little, ah, emergency—”

“You told her it was an emergency?” Lucila gasps.

“Well, honey, I didn’t know how else to put it! I couldn’t very well say, ‘Oh, can’t watch the kids today, our son came back from the dead,’ now, could I?”

“They’re going to be worried sick! I bet you we have a dozen missed calls on the other phone, you just watch.” She huffs out a laugh. “Jesse, they’re going to be just thrilled to meet you.”

Jesse swallows. “Yeah?”

She must sense his trepidation because she gentles, the same tone she would use when he was scared to jump in the river learning to swim. “I can’t promise things will be easy, but we will make it work. They can talk to you and, and, we have to plan how we can meet! Goodness, we’ve never been out of the country, and you’ve been all over. We don’t even have passports! How hard is it for you to travel here? And you should bring your boyfriend!”

“That’s if you want to,” Joel adds.

“Yes. Of course, I can’t wait.” Jesse glances at the digital clock by their bed and realizes he’s been on the phone over an hour, and just now becomes aware of the soreness in his throat from talking so much. “I’ll have to talk it over with my boss, and we’ll figure out when I can come visit. Don’t worry none about logistics, I can get over to the States just fine.”

“And we’ll talk more before then.” There’s a pause then Joel laughs. “And I know we ain’t goin’ to hang up on you, son, so you’re goin’ to have to get the goodbyes rollin’ or we’ll be here all day and night. Ain’t it night where you are?”

Jesse is no more eager to end the call than they are, but he needs time to absorb everything and the weeks of stress have exhausted him. “Yeah, but don’t worry, we’re used to all hours. Can I call y’all tomorrow?”

“Anytime, baby. You have our number?” Lucila asks.

“Yeah.” Jesse licks his lips. “I love you, Mama. Love you, Dad.”

They respond in kind, and it takes three attempts at goodbyes before Jesse can bring himself to end the call. Setting the phone aside, he breathes in deep then exhales long and hard. He flops back onto the bed, exhausted.

At some point Hanzo adjusted on the bed so he be there but still be comfortable, resting against the pillows piled against the headboard. He sits up to lean over Jesse, his broad hand running a soothing circle over Jesse’s chest. “Are you okay?” Hanzo asks, the fingers of his other hand carding through Jesse’s hair.

Jesse takes a few more cleansing breaths. That phone call easily took position as the number one most stressful phone call he has ever had in his life. He could stand to go another thirty years without that level of emotional turmoil. He’s drained and overflowing all at the same time, hazy only the way wringing your heart out can make him. And it feels good. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’m okay.” Quirking his lips, he smiles up at Hanzo through heavy-lidded eyes. “Guess you get to meet the family after all.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally supposed to be a one-shot, then it became a three-shot, now it's going to be at least 5+. But is anyone surprised by this? I mean, honestly. You know me.
> 
> Also, this chapter has a lot of introductions at once, which I usually avoid but seemed inevitable in this particular situation? But hey, McCree feels overwhelmed, too!

“Are you sure I shouldn’t’ve trimmed up my beard a little more?” Jesse asks, turning his head to look at the scruff along his neck in the mirror. “It still looks a little rugged.”

Hanzo shakes his head, busy working a belt through the loops of his jeans. Not that he needs it with how tight they are, but he likes to have a complete look. “Absolutely not. You are rugged. That is part of your charm. And I do not want to see you taking a razor to your hair this week. If left to your own devices, you will have no facial hair left at all.”

Jesse looks back at himself and sighs. His boyfriend might be right about that. Just this morning he had taken the scissors from Jesse’s hand after he had trimmed, and trimmed, and trimmed a little more. Hanzo had finished up for him, making sure his wild beard was just tame enough for the occasion, then forbade him from touching another blade. That doesn’t mean he couldn’t look better, though. He runs his fingers through his hair, frowning at the result but he hated it combed smooth so he lets that slide. The tie looks off. Tugging it just makes it worse. Maybe if he wiggled it like this? No, now it’s too far the other way. Maybe tighter?

“Jesse.” A soft laugh accompanies his name, and then Hanzo is by his side, turning the cowboy to face him. “How many times are you going to mess with this tie?” he asks, slipping it loose so he can go about re-tying it for the fifth time.

“When it stops looking wrong. It’s either too straight or too crooked. Everything looks too–” He waves his hand at the whole package. “Symmetrical.” He raises his chin obediently when Hanzo shifts the fabric up higher to his Adam’s apple. “Wish I could wear my hat.”

“You will have your hat the rest of the week; you can do without for one day.” Hanzo steps back and looks at Jesse from head to toe, ignoring the fact they are both still barefoot. Jesse is clad in a crisp, new button-down, not one of his preferred plaids but a classy cobalt blue, and the nicest pair of deep navy jeans he could find. His belt buckle is a simple silver art deco design; Hanzo had made a point to take the BAMF buckle and hide it before they packed, because it was not at all appropriate for this trip. The tie is striped, some silk number that Hanzo picked out for Jesse because making fashion decisions about ties was never something he cared much about. He shoots Hanzo a winning smile but he doesn’t seem to like what he sees, a frown creasing his features. “You might be right.”

Jesse’s face falls. “What? Right about what? The hair? Or the beard? I got the trimmers in my bag–”

“The symmetry,” Hanzo corrects, tugging the tie loose again. “You do not look like  _ you  _ with this thing on. Or not a happy you, anyway.” He tosses the tie aside and unbuttons the top two buttons, shaking out the fabric so it is looser. Then he ruffles Jesse’s hair even more.

“Hey!” Jesse squawks, knocking Hanzo’s hands away. “I spent forever on that!”

“I can tell. It was awful.” Hanzo grabs him by the shoulders and turns him around to face the mirror. “Look. That is you.”

Jesse huffs at his reflection. Okay, yes, he does look a lot less like a trussed up stooge on his way to his own funeral. He fusses with his hair just a little but drops his hands when Hanzo pinches his love handles. “Alright, quit it, I get the point,” he complains, relaxing into the arms that wrap around his waist. He looks at the two of them in the mirror, Hanzo having to stretch just a little bit to rest his chin on Jesse’s shoulder, and can’t help but smile. “Just nervous.”

“I know,” Hanzo murmurs, squeezing Jesse’s middle. “I have not seen you fidget this much since our first date.”

“Excuse you, I was perfectly charming on our first date.”

Hanzo grins, passing one hand up and down Jesse’s chest. “You tore that napkin to shreds before the appetizers arrived.”

“Remember that, do you?” Jesse turns and settles his arms around Hanzo’s own well-dressed shoulders. “Can you blame me? I didn’t want to fuck things up with the prettiest assassin I’d ever seen.”

The barest hint of a blush stains Hanzo’s cheeks as he glances away; Jesse always enjoys flustering the poor archer. “Flatterer.” Hanzo gets ahold of his dignity and draws Jesse in by the waist, pushing up onto the balls of his feet so he can steal a kiss. “You have nothing to be nervous about. They love you.”

Jesse swallows and nods, tucking his face in close. “I know. Still.”

Hanzo hums. “I will be right there the whole time.”

“You won’t feel weird?”

“It does not matter if I do. You will have other things on your mind, and I am a big boy. I can tolerate some awkwardness.” Jesse smirks, opening his mouth, but Hanzo cuts him off. “Yes, I know, spare me whatever crude joke about being a big boy you are about to make.”

Jesse laughs and kisses him quick. “Spoilsport.”

This trip has been nearly two months in the making. After that first painful conversation with his parents, Jesse has made it a point to talk to them every few days, no matter what odd hours he might have to keep on his part to make it happen. Even if the conversation is short, he makes the effort. Every call has brought the same excitement, the same thrill from hearing his mother or father on the other end of the line. And, for the first time ever, he spoke to his brothers. Their talks were brief and awkward, no one sure what to say and made more awkward after finding out that Nathaniel, the middle child, was named Nathaniel Jesse. There was a good bit of embarrassed laughter over that. But Jesse could hear the eagerness on both sides. No matter what his treacherous brain tries to tell him, they want to know him. He hopes it will be easier in person.

The only time he has missed calling was on a week-long mission; despite Winston’s insistence that he deal with his personal issues first, Jesse’s skill and experience were sorely missed on the battlefield and Winston was more than happy to have him back in the rotation. Jesse thinks that was the first time his parents really gave thought to what he does for a living. He couldn’t tell them where exactly he was going or what he was doing, but they could tell it was dangerous. His mother had really struggled to end that last phone call before he left for the mission. Not that he could blame her. The thought of finally getting your child back after all these years just to possibly lose them again before you see them with your own eyes… Once they were back safe in Gibraltar, Jesse immediately went to Winston’s office and made the arrangements to go see them. He couldn’t wait any longer. Winston didn’t even argue when he insisted he and Hanzo get at least a week off.

When he told Hanzo later that night, the archer just smiled, shook his head, and asked what the weather was like in Colorado.

Now here they are, in a little suburban hotel, the view of the mountains in the distance obstructed by a McDonald’s sign and a billboard, with one last short drive standing between Jesse and his long-lost family.

Hanzo usually defers to Jesse when it comes to driving, the American far more at ease behind the wheel of any vehicle, but today Hanzo ushers him into the passenger's seat. He also pulls a little pack from his pocket and hands it to Jesse without a word. It takes him a moment to realize what it is. “Nicotine gum?”

“You have not smoked since yesterday morning, and you keep searching for cigarillos that are not there,” Hanzo comments. “This should help with the shakiness.”

“When did you find time to buy these?”

“At the airport.”

Jesse tears open the package and pops one of the little white squares into his mouth. “I didn’t want to smell like ash.”

“I was worried you would overdo the cologne, too, but you smell fine,” Hanzo replies, mouth inching up at the corners. “And I brought your cigarillos in my bag for later.”

The cowboy exhales all at once, leaning back against the seat as he chews. “You’re an angel, sweetheart.”

He tries to talk on the drive, but the closer they get to their destination Jesse falls quiet. There is nothing particularly interesting about this little suburban town. He’s seen a thousand just like it, maybe more. The same collection of chain stores and restaurants, houses and apartments, banks and schools and churches, all arranged in a slightly different layout under a blanket of criss-crossing power lines. But this one is different. This town is his parents’  _ home _ . They built an entire life here. If but for a twist of fate, this might be where he grew up. As they pass a high school, he wonders if that’s where he would have received a diploma like a real high school graduate, instead of getting his GED years later in Blackwatch. Would he have worked at the public pool in the summers, sitting on one of those high white chairs on life-guard duty watching kids splash and play?

Would he have ended up on the wrong side of the tracks, hanging with the wrong crowd? In a gang before he was old enough to drive? Would he still break his mama’s heart, just in a different way?

“Are you alright?” Hanzo asks when the silence goes on too long.

Jesse shrugs. “Thinkin’ of what-ifs.” Hanzo hums and says nothing. His companion has an assassin’s patience, so he knows how to wait for Jesse to gather his thoughts. “Wonderin’ how I would’ve turned out here.”

Hanzo considers him. “You would be a lot less interesting.”

“You think?” Jesse asks.

“I can imagine it now. An all-American type, driving one of those big trucks but never using it anywhere that would get it dirty. Maybe working construction or...hmm...a gym teacher? Yes, so you can stay active but still have fun. Coaching football.” He glances over at Jesse to find him cracking a smile. “Wearing polos and khaki shorts like Morrison.”

“Now that is just offensive,” Jesse laughs, his dark thoughts fading. He looks at Hanzo, their eyes meeting before Hanzo has to pay attention to the road. Hanzo, in his own nice shirt and jeans, undercut smooth and hair arranged just so, the simple handsome elegance of a man that can make any cheap off-the-rack clothing look refined. “I reckon you would’ve been a lot harder for a gym teacher to catch.”

Hanzo grins. “I do not know. You could have hit me with a dodgeball.”

“Do they have dodgeball in Japan?”

The scoff Hanzo makes then is so out of place coming from his throat that Jesse’s eyebrows fly up his forehead. “Did we have dodgeball? That is like asking if Brazil likes futbol.”

Huh. Jesse will have to remember to bring this up again. Genji never mentioned it as a thing they played as kids, but perhaps it just never came up. Maybe they can get the agents together for a friendly game once they’re back. He and Hana could place a few bets on who would be the first to get a broken nose. Their group tends to get awful rowdy in competitive sports. “Don’t think yakuza lords would be dropping by a little place like this,” he points out.

“Yakuza lords do not often abandon their clan and join peacekeeping organizations.” They pull up to a stoplight and Hanzo turns those intense dark eyes his way in a long, appraising look. The teasing tone is gone, replaced by a quiet firmness Jesse isn’t expecting at all. “I hate what you had to go through, and yet…” His fingers go tight on the steering wheel before relaxing again. “It is selfish of me, but I cannot regret that everything led you to here, with me.”

“You big sap,” Jesse teases, touched. He leans over for a kiss, traffic be damned. People may think his boyfriend is sharp around the edges and hard to get close to, but they’re wrong. If they could only see how sweet his stoic archer can be when his guard is down. And Hanzo always knows the right thing to say—okay, not always, he can be awful with words, but he tries and that’s what counts. He’s been doing pretty dang well for Jesse at alleviating his concerns. “You tryin’ to say everything happens for a reason?”

“No, I am trying to say I prefer my sharpshooting cowboy as he is. And so will your family,” Hanzo adds. He checks the GPS and slows down. “This is the neighborhood.”

Jesse’s attention snaps abruptly back out the windows. They’ve turned into a housing development, the homes an odd combination of old brick and sleek metal, the unique style that cropped up right at the end of the first Omnic Crisis. They all have solar panels, and Jesse can see a dozen giant wind turbines just over the hill at the far end of the development, beyond the trees. People were a lot less comfortable living on-the-grid in those days, especially those that lost everything to machines.

Those thoughts are inconsequential now, with Hanzo taking a few turns down side streets, driving slow so they don’t miss their destination. Jesse’s muscles tense up when he spots a house with more cars out front than normal in the middle of a weekday, and he instinctively knows this is it. Sure enough, Hanzo slows to a stop on the curb in front of the house and puts the car in park. A surge of adrenaline floods his system harder than ever as the car goes quiet.

The curtains in the front window twitch to the side briefly before settling again.

His hands shake, don’t feel like his own, but he somehow manages to open the door. He even gets to his feet without his knees giving out. Then Hanzo is there by his side, a warm hand on his elbow keeping him steady. Jesse looks at him and Hanzo gives him a nod. _ I am here. We do this together. You can do this.  _

Jesse’s legs carry him across the green lawn and up the single step to the covered porch. He knows they’re in there waiting, but it still takes him a few moments to gather the strength, raise his arm, and knock on that door. The sound of the latch clicking open might just stop his heart.

When Jesse imagined this moment, he knew things would be emotional, but he never thought about how his senses would dim to almost nothing. How his focus would shutter, like a horse with blinders on, or how sounds of the outside world would fade. How his pulse would thrum in his limbs. The moment the door opens and he sees Lucila McCree on the other side, everything else ceases to exist.

They’re holding each other before he can take his next breath. His mother is so small in his arms, and that’s another thing he never considered; the last time she held him, he was five years old and his skinny frame could be completely enfolded in her embrace. Now it’s him that can wrap his arms all the way around her shoulders with room to spare. Her hands are clinging as she draws him down, down, his head tucked against her hair and her tears falling against his cheek. She smells like gardenia perfume but underneath is  _ her _ , her scent that hasn’t changed, will never change, this is  _ real _ . His own tears come, and his eyes are squeezed shut, but he can’t stop smiling.

Other arms come around him, Joel McCree wedging his way in and Jesse throws an arm around his dad’s shoulders. His dad feels smaller than he remembers, too, age making him thin, but he grabs hold of his son so hard it hurts and grips tight like he might never let go. A loud smacking kiss is laid on Jesse’s forehead, Joel’s thin scratchy facial hair tickling Jesse’s eyebrow. Then Jesse gets pulled down deeper into the three-way-hug, unable to see anything in the dim little cave made by their embrace.

Distantly, Jesse is aware of murmurs, a soft cooing at how sweet the scene is, and the clicks of a camera.

Jesse finally manages to ease back enough to look his parents in the face. He doesn’t get too far, what with his mother’s her hands in his hair, petting over his cheeks and beard, memorizing every inch. “Hey Mama,” he rasps.

“My baby,” Lucila replies, eyes roaming his features. Her hands finally settle on his shoulders and she realizes she’s tilting her head back a great deal to see him. “You’re so big!” That seems to break the fragile air as all three start laughing, and crying, and hugging all over again.

“He takes after us McCree’s,” Joel says, ruffling Jesse’s hair in a manner that brings back a sense of deja vu. “You look good, son.”

“So do you. Both of you.” Jesse is reluctant to step back, can’t make himself at all. He looks up to see his brothers and their significant others standing just inside the living room, all with great big smiles on their faces. Kylie, the taller woman with sandy blonde hair, has her phone held up taking video, and the dark-haired Alejandra is dabbing her eyes to keep her mascara from running, a hand holding her rounded belly. Beyond them are the kids peeking around their fathers’ legs, in shock at their grandma and grandpa displaying such emotion for this strange man.

Oh, yeah, and he kind of left Hanzo on the porch.

He turns in their arms to find Hanzo on the threshold with his own camera out, though he quickly puts it down when Jesse reaches for him. His eyes are shiny and he dashes away at the corners before taking Jesse’s hand and stepping in. “Sorry, darlin’, got caught up.” Jesse clears his throat, beaming at his parents. “This is Shimada Hanzo, my partner.”

Hanzo holds out his hand to Joel. “It is a pleasure to meet y–oof!”

Before he can react, Hanzo gets pulled into a tight hug by Joel, back getting a hearty smack. “None of that, my boy, we’re huggin’ folk!” When he releases Hanzo, the archer looks like he’s been backhanded by a fish. Joel looks pleased as punch, giving his shoulder a squeeze before moving aside so Lucila can greet him too. “Pleasure to meet you! We’ve heard a lot about you!”

Lucila leans up and presses a kiss to Hanzo’s cheek, holding him still so she can give him a hug almost as strong as her husband’s. Even so, the fingers of her free hand don’t let go of Jesse’s arm. “Jesse’s told us a whole lot. We’re so glad you could come with him.” Hanzo looks like he is struggling to respond—not that Jesse can blame him, poor man can barely handle getting hugged by their teammates—but Lucila’s attention is already back on Jesse. “Come in, come in, you have to meet everybody!”

There is a collective group shuffle as everyone steps back to make space in the bigger living room rather than crowding by the front door. Not that there is much more in the living room with so many bodies, and especially with men the size of Jesse and his brothers taking up space. The tallest of the bunch steps forward and takes the lead. “Hey there. I’m Nate.”

“Jesse. Well damn,” Jesse says as they embrace. Nathaniel is a good two few inches taller than Jesse himself. “And here I thought I was the big brother.”

“Yeah, I was thinkin’ the same thing,” he laughs.

“He shot up like a bean sprout,” Joel says, pride in his voice.

The shorter of the two, Elijah, shoulders in to get his own hug. “Elijah. Just call me Eli. And we’re so glad to finally meet you.”

“Good lord, they could be twins,” Alejandra says from behind their circle.

And it’s true. Jesse feels like he’s looking at some bizarre alternate version of himself from his Blackwatch days, all dark clothes and questionable facial hair. Jesse finds himself laughing again, though he isn’t entirely sure why. Joy, he supposes. “It’s good to meet y’all, too. I still can’t believe it.”

“Us neither,” Nate laughs, the three of them grinning identical smiles at each other.

A little whimper from behind draws all their attention to Lucilla, clutching at Joel’s arm and wiping at her face with a handkerchief. “Aww, Mama, don’t cry,” Eli says even as she attaches herself to his side.

“Never thought I’d get to see all my boys together, and, and here you are!” she exclaims, patting Eli on the back of the hand. Jesse thinks he hears a sniffle from Kylie, snapping picture after picture with her phone. “This young lady with the camera is Kylie, Eli’s girlfriend.”

“Partner,” Kylie corrects, gently, stepping forward to offer a strong handshake to the two of them. Jesse can tell right away that she and Eli have matching bold personalities.  “Nice to meet you! We’re so glad to have you here. I know this must be overwhelmin’ for y’all.”

“Little bit,” Jesse admits.

Nate puts a hand on the small of Alejandra’s back. “And this is my wife, Allie.”

“So good to see you!” She goes for a hug rather than a handshake. Jesse tries not to put pressure on her baby bump, unused to dealing with pregnant women, but she doesn’t seem to mind at all. “Nate’s talked about nothing else for weeks! Same as the kids.”

“Kids? C’mon up here.” At their father’s call, the two boys shuffle their way to stand between their parents. Jesse has never been good at telling a kid’s age just from looking at them, but if he could wager a guess, he’d say somewhere between seven and twelve. They both have short mops of unruly dark hair and Alejandra’s chocolate-brown eyes. “This is Juaquin and Hugo. Boys, say hi to your uncle.”

Juaquin, clearly the oldest, offers a polite if quiet hello, while Hugo mumbles along. Their parents look vaguely embarrassed but Jesse couldn’t care less if they had squawked like chickens.  _ Uncle _ . He’s an uncle now. He takes a shaky little breath before offering the oldest his hand. “Hi there. It’s nice to meet you.”

The boy’s eyes go wide, unused to being treated like a little adult. His back and shoulders straighten before he takes Jesse’s hand in a firm little handshake. “Nice to meet you.” He then nudges Hugo in the side to do the same.

“How old are you?” Jesse asks.

“Ten. And Hugo’s eight,” Juaquin replies.

Jesse squints his eyes, feigning disbelief. “Ten and eight? Could’ve fooled me. You sure you boys ain’t teenagers?”

Hugo barks out a little laugh. “No!”

“Almost!” Juaquin jumps to add. “I am, anyway. Not him.”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Boys,” Nate intones with just enough parental warning in his voice to quiet them down. Little hands cling to Nate’s legs as his daughter hides her face behind his thigh. Nate offers an indulgent smile before picking her up in his arms. He turns so she cannot hide as easily. “And this is Hana, she’s four. Do you want to say hi to your Uncle Jesse and Hanzo?”

Hana looks back and forth between these two new people and promptly buries her face against her father’s, her little pink-clad arms wrapping around his neck in a choke-hold. Jesse might be a little in love already. “Aw, you don’t gotta be scared of us, sweet pea.”

“She’s always a little shy at first,” Alejandra tries to interject, but Jesse won’t have any of it.

“It’s fine. I know I ain’t got the prettiest face,” he says on a laugh. To Hana, he says, “You know, I got a friend named Hana. Her favorite color’s pink, too.” Then, to Hanzo, “Knew I should’a brought a little somethin’ for ‘em.”

“No bribing the children,” Hanzo murmurs.

“You hear that? Maybe Jesse will tell you about his friend. How about that?” Nate asks. She peeks out again and just barely nods, but Jesse will count it as a win. “Sorry about this. She’s usually not  _ this  _ shy.”

Jesse shakes his head. “We got a friend with a whole load of kids, so don’t worry, I understand. Half of ‘em run wide open and the other half are quiet as a mouse. It’s lovely to meet you, anyway, Miss Hana.”

“I’ll take them outside,” Alejandra says, and Jesse watches as she and Nate perform a perfect child transfer without missing a beat. “Let you all have time to talk. You’ll both stay for dinner tonight, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Jesse promises.

 

\---

 

By the time they get to dinner, everyone has relaxed enough to talk freely. Jesse still feels like a stranger in a strange land, but the McCree’s are a friendly lot and fill in the gaps in conversation readily. They seem to pick up on the fact that Jesse has lived a hard life even if they haven’t gotten the courage to ask directly yet. To make up for it, they fill him in on all the major and minor events they can think of: Nate playing baseball in college, Eli and Kylie’s animal rescue business, Joel’s heart attack a few years back and subsequent healthy diet that he hates, Lucila’s blue-ribbon azaleas. Eli and Nate give an animated rundown of a prank they once pulled on the nextdoor neighbor that led to a night in juvenile hall. They all pitch in to tell the tale of Juaquin’s hectic birth that involved a snowplow, a sleigh, and eight firefighters.

Jesse soaks in every little drop of information like a man dying of thirst. He wants to know every detail, find out about every moment he can get his hands on.

After the dishes are cleaned and the leftovers put away, Lucila shepherds Jesse and Hanzo back into the living room where a newcomer promptly arrives looking sleep-rumpled and grumpy. “Looks like Banjo decided to join us,” Joel says. 

“He’s one of our rescues,” Eli explains of the giant orange tabby. “He was a feral that had already lost an eye when he was brought in. We weren’t sure if we were going to find him a home, but Mama and Daddy took a shine to him.”

Banjo wanders in giving everyone an equally unimpressed look, his asymmetric gaze not unlike Ana Amari before her required morning cup of coffee. That is, until he lays eyes on Hanzo. After a moment’s pause, he makes a bee-line for the unsuspecting man, sniffing at his leg before hopping up on the seat next to him. Without only a minimal amount of inspection, he climbs right into Hanzo’s lap and flops down, making himself right at home. “Oh. Hello there.”

Eli blinks at them. “Well, I’ll be. Ain’t never seen him take to someone without so much as a treat in hand.”

“Never fails,” Jesse says, shaking his head. “Hanzo’s got a way with animals.”

“I did not do anything,” Hanzo argues even as he begins petting the big fluffy animal. 

“Maybe you guys can come by the shelter while you’re in town,” Eli offers. “See our little zoo. We’ve got some pretty unusual animals!” 

“Yes, that would be fun,” Hanzo agrees, shooting Jesse a subtle warning look. They had already decided that they weren’t going to share Hanzo’s dragons, at least not on this trip. Something has to be saved for the future.

Meanwhile, Lucila starts pulling out photo albums from a wooden chest in the corner. “Aw, Ma, not that,” Eli complains when he sees her set three thick books on the table one after the next.

“Hush, I’m not looking for those. Though that’s a good idea! He can see how cute y’all were when you were little.” She finally seems to locate what she’s looking for, hefting her find up onto the coffee table in front of Jesse. “Here we are!”

The wooden chest is about the size of a breadbox and looks antique, with a simple brass latch on the front and handles on the sides. “What’cha got here?” Jesse asks as Lucila takes a seat next to him on the couch.

“You’re gonna want your camera out for this,” Kylie whispers  _ sotto voce _ to Hanzo, already getting out her own phone.

Lucila runs her hand over the top of the box lovingly before addressing Jesse’s curious confusion. “You know, your Daddy and I were at work when the attack started. We lost, well, everything we had. The house, the farm. There was nothing left. Just what we had on us and  what we had in the car and the truck.” She tugs the lid off the box and sets it aside with a smile of anticipation.

When Jesse peeks in the box his eyes go wide as saucers. “Oh my God,” he gasps, then breaks out into a grin. “Oh my God!” Hanzo cranes his neck to try and get a glimpse inside, but Jesse makes it easier by pulling the first item out: a stained, battered, thread-bare, stuffed horse. It has brown fur with a white nose and dangly legs, a black mane and tail, and a wrinkled red bandana around its neck. The toy looks so delicate and fragile in his rough hands. Jesse holds it like a long-forgotten relic. “Dusty!”

“You remember its name?” Nate asks, amazed.

“Of course I do! This was my best friend!” Jesse laughs, turning Dusty over to look at him from all sides, checking for damage. “I used to drag him everywhere. Only place he wasn’t allowed to go was school.”

“Because we knew if you lost him we’d never get you to stop cryin’,” Joel says, smiling at the elation in Jesse’s voice. “Mama had to wash him a few times, and every time you’d just bawl at her feet until we gave him back.”

“And I had to have him in the car when I came to pick you up from kindergarten,” Lucila adds.

“I can’t believe it,” Jesse says. “You kept him all this time?”

Lucila squeezes him from the side. “Of course I did, baby. We kept everything we had of yours. Luckily you were a bit of a pack-rat in the car. Go on, keep looking.”

The next few things Jesse doesn’t remember quite so vividly: several plastic action figures, a pretend walkie-talkie that used to make noises but the mechanism inside died long ago, two construction toys that were part of a set, and a coloring book featuring characters from a cartoon that went off the air ages ago. The only thing of note from that item being Jesse’s attempts at practicing his name in bold crayola. After some fussing from Lucila about how adorable Jesse drew his S’s, he reaches in for the next item and promptly turns red. “Oh, God.”

“What is it?” Hanzo asks, then lets out an absolutely involuntary coo. “That is  _ adorable! _ ”

“You had to keep the cowboy boots?” Jesse asks, covering his blushing face with one hand while holding the little pair of boots in his other. They’re black leather with little white stitching on the side. And _ fringe.  _

Hanzo laughs, taking photo after photo on his phone. “A cowboy from the very beginning!”

“They were  _ so  _ cute,” Lucila insists. “He would stomp around in his little boots, oh, you could hear him coming from across the house! He had a cowboy hat and a little pop gun—not one of those dangerous ones, it just made a noise all on its own—and he’d run all over the place with Dusty.”

“His kindergarten teacher thought it was so funny that instead of saying, ‘Hello,’ like the rest of the class, he would say, ‘Howdy,’” Joel adds.

Jesse points at Hanzo. “Stop laughin’,” he warns, grinning at his boyfriend’s shaking shoulders as he succumbs to a giggle fit. “Mama, y’all are ruinin’ my reputation.”

“No they are not. I already knew you had a soft side,” Hanzo says. “The team is going to love this. Ah, Banjo, no!” He hisses as the cat in his lap starts kneading at his thigh, sharp claws digging rhythmically into the denim and skin underneath. The cat just looks up at him, unperturbed, and keeps right on digging. “No no, kitty, no, do not do that...ah…” He pries the little claws out but all that manages to do is transfer the neading to his arm and get Banjo purring at the attention.

There isn’t much left at the bottom of the box. He finds a smooth blue stone that Jesse has no recollection of at all, but that Joel says they picked up at a roadside store that little Jesse thought was interesting. It had apparently been his lucky rock. There’s also a dozen unused dinosaur stickers on a sheet, the corner one missing and the entire thing peeling up on the edges from age. And a small envelope at the bottom with Jesse’s name written on it in his mother’s cursive.

“Those were the only pictures we could find,” Lucila says as Jesse slips a finger under the flap to open it. “The ones we have in frames are copies. I wanted to keep the originals safe.” She shuffles closer until the scant inches between them are gone, pressed from shoulder to knee as he takes out the wallet-sized photos. Two of them are portraits, just him sitting in front of a painted background under the almost-perfect lighting of a professional photographer. The third is him as a baby being held by his mother. She has him wrapped in a soft yellow blanket and is pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

There are only a handful of pictures that Jesse has of his youth, and all of them are from Deadlock. A group shot of the original gang, getting his first tattoo, him on his Harley, showing off with his revolver. He even has a copy of his very first wanted poster at the tender age of fourteen. Needless to say, he really doesn’t remember what he looked like with any clarity.

This little boy with a mop of messy brown hair and a bright smile seems so far from the man he is today that he almost laughs. He would, but it suddenly doesn’t feel very funny. He swallows down a lump of sadness and offers the pictures over to Hanzo. “You wanna look?”

Hanzo eagerly accepts the photos with more aplomb than Jesse thinks is strictly necessary. “Oh,” he breathes, grinning again. Hanzo’s happiness tugs him back from those darker thoughts. “Look at you! Yes, I can tell it is you right away. You make that same squinty smile.”

“What? I do not.”

“You do too! You make it all the time.  _ Always  _ before you do something stupid,” Hanzo adds, just to make Jesse sputter. “You look lovely in this one, Mrs. McCree. Would you mind if we kept copies of these?”

Lucila titters and waves a hand at him. “Of course you can have some! And I told you, sweetie, call me Lucila! Or Mom! Jesse, he’s so formal.”

“He is,” Jesse laughs.

Another few slips of off-white paper in the envelope catch Jesse’s eye and he pulls them out. He has already unfolded them and flipped them over before Lucila can stop him. “Oh, baby, you don’t need to look at those—”

“I had an obituary?”

Joel rubs a hand over his face. “Well, of course you did, son.”

“Guess that tombstone at the cemetery ain’t necessary anymore, neither,” Nate chimes in, earning him a glare from his father.

“A  _ tombstone?”  _ Jesse blurts as Hanzo slaps a hand over his mouth. “But—you didn’t have anything to bury! Oh, God, y’all had a funeral and everything?” He grimaces and puts an arm around his mother to give her another much-needed hug. “Aww, Mama, I’m sorry you had to go through all that.”

“Shush,” she says, resting her head on his shoulder. “We got you back now, that’s all that matters.”

“All them years we had to dress up nice and take flowers for nothin’,” Eli points out to Nate.

Lucila lets out a soft laugh. “I suppose we’ll need to have that taken down.”

“I’ll call next week. That sure will be a wild conversation,” Joel says with a sigh.

“Funny enough, I ain’t the first person in Overwatch that’s had a grave that didn’t need one,” Jesse points out while skimming over the contents of his obituary and the funeral service. Apparently one of the hymns they played was  _ In The Garden. _ He  _ hates  _ that song, but isn’t about to tell that to his Mama and Daddy. “Survivin’ is something we’ve gotten awful good at. When y’all come to visit, you’ll have to meet some of ‘em. If they ain’t on mission, of course.”

“Yeah, I want to hear more about what you do out there. Mama and Daddy ain’t exactly the best at explaining things from your calls,” Nate says. He glances over at Alejandra, who is lingering in the doorway to the back rooms. She taps her wrist and shoots him a look. “Ah, damn, right, it’s way past the kids’ bedtime. We need to head out.”

“Aw, y’all all don’t need to go, now, you can stay the night,” Joel tries. Judging by the shared glances from everyone else in the room, Jesse and Hanzo can tell this must be a phrase they hear often. “Don’t feel like you need to run off now.”

“It’s been a long day, Joe,” Lucila says. She hugs Jesse’s arm again. “And we have a whole week to spend with them. We all need to get some rest.”

Jesse grins. “Breakfast, first thing tomorrow? My treat.”

That seems to be the magic word for Joel. “Now that’s what I like to hear!”

Later that night, after Hanzo checks in with Gibraltar and joins Jesse reclining in bed, he holds up their copies of Jesse’s photos to the soft lamplight. “You were a very cute kid.”

Jesse hums around his cigarillo. He’s burned through one already and is working on a second. “I was a runt. I think I was one of the shortest kids in my class.” Hanzo laughs at the thought, slumping over into Jesse’s side so they can both look. “God, you can see all my freckles.”

It’s true; Jesse has always had a rich brown skin tone, but back then his freckles were far more intense. There’s a liberal speckling all over his face and arms, with a concentration right across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Most of them have faded in with the rest of his coloring, but those across his nose and cheeks are still there even today. They hide in the shadow of his hat most of the time. Hanzo gets to see them more than most. “I like your freckles,” Hanzo says, looking up from the past to admire the present.

“They’re goofy.”

Hanzo makes a noise of dissent, setting the photos aside and rolling so he can gaze openly. When Jesse gives him a doubtful look, he plucks the cigarillo from Jesse’s mouth and places it safely out of the way before crawling closer. “I like them,” he repeats, running his fingertips light over the mottled skin. Jesse wrinkles his nose but allows the touch, closing his eyes. “They make you look young. And there! There, see? There is that smile.” Hanzo traces down over Jesse’s cheeks to the curving lips of said smile. “When you smile like this, you look like a child.”

Jesse peeks out of one eye. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“You look carefree,” Hanzo corrects. “It is the smile you gave me in the practice range, the first time you challenged me. I thought you were trying to goad me, but then you smiled like that and I realized you only wanted to have an enjoyable experience.” His thumb lingers on Jesse’s bottom lip, then he brushes the backs of his knuckles over Jesse’s freckles. “I knew you were going to be different, then, I think.”

“Knew you’d be different, too,” Jesse murmurs, dipping his head to meet Hanzo halfway. Only Hanzo has ever made him feel quite like this, like even at his most ordinary he is something special. He would tell Hanzo as much, but he thinks now is the time for action. Once Hanzo’s lips are dark and pouty from kissing, Jesse’s mouth meanders down his jaw and throat to suck on the spot just above Hanzo’s collarbone that elicits a gasp.

Yes, right on cue. Hanzo’s fingers go tight on Jesse’s shoulder for a brief moment before he shoves Jesse onto his back and straddles his waist. “You know what else I like about your freckles?” he asks, dragging fingers through Jesse’s chest hair.

Jesse moves his hands to Hanzo’s waist, eyes glittering with anticipation. “What’s that, sugar?”

Hanzo’s grin has a boyish deviousness all his own as he leans down. “Some of them, only I get to find.”

Before he completely loses himself in the pleasure that is his boyfriend, Jesse does reach over to flip the photos of himself and his mother face-down. There are some things they don’t need to see.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like that and want more, want to check out my art, or just want to chat, come on by my tumblr! You can find me under username wyntera. And if twitter is more your game, come and join me there, just look for @ThreeCatDesigns. You can now also find me as wyntera on Pillowfort!
> 
> And hey. Thanks.


End file.
